


Wasteland

by cimorene



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-03
Updated: 2009-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-04 03:13:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cimorene/pseuds/cimorene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep, solitude, living with somebody, and the middle of the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasteland

**Author's Note:**

> Originally comment ficlet for Phineas in 2003.

in the winter, karl likes to sleep with his house as hot as a sauna so he can sprawl naked across the bed. karl dislikes down, except for sleeping bags. viggo doesn't mind the sleeping without blankets part, and he sleeps sort of like a pharaoh a lot of the time, with his hands crossed at the wrist over his chest. so it works out perfectly, because karl's bed is huge but karl takes up almost all of it--all of it exactly except for a viggo-sized space, he thinks sometimes, because they seem to both fit so perfectly all the time.

in the afternoon karl may come inside from a run and find viggo lying on his stomach across the bed, made. it only has the comforter on when viggo has made it. karl doesn't bother with more than the sheets. viggo might look over his shoulder welcomingly or he might keep chewing on the end of a pencil, scribbling or sketching. karl will fling himself on the bed next to viggo and rub his sweaty face and hair on viggo's neck and tighten his arm around viggo's shoulder. and viggo might drop his pencil and paper, turn over, and open up mouth-first like a flower falling open under the sunlight in spring. or he might smile and nuzzle back because, he says, he likes sweat. or he might duck his head away without paying much mind, but when he finishes a bit, he'll probably put out his hand and fumble blindly across the bed until he finds karl's. then he'll lace their fingers together whether karl is asleep or awake, and either way, they'll both wake up hours later, upside down or sideways on the bed, at right angles, with viggo's head on karl's stomach, or his forehead pressed against karl's hipbone through his athletic shorts.

at night sometimes karl feels like a guest in his own house or a supplicant coming before a temple, before a king. he puts out the bathroom light and walks in boxers or naked toward the bed. he'll meet viggo's eyes from the door. viggo has a solemn face, a face that asks you silently for all of your secrets and stores them up to give back to you. and it's like he's walking through tough high grass or slow, muddy water to the bed. every movement becomes slow and deliberate until viggo's eyes release him, usually at the edge of the bed, and he tumbles in. if viggo glances down, toplit by the lamp he uses to read and draw in bed, karl might be caught all over again and crawl up to him, breathless, to trace the hollows under his eyes and his cheeks, the shadows of his lips, with his thumbs and the backs of his fingers, with his mouth. viggo lets him get away with this, usually, only for a little while. viggo understands about the sanctity of lovemaking, but he believes it's carefree and joyous, and after a while he will turn into the kiss, smooth his hands over karl murmuring gutturally wordless words, smiling and laughing. they fall asleep side-by-side or spine-to-spine; in the middle of the night, if they wake up, viggo is still and compact, and karl's like a possessive starfish, flung wide over the bed, but always keeping one point on viggo.

but in the winter, karl likes to sleep with his house as hot as a sauna so he can sprawl naked across the bed, and viggo isn't used to that yet. sometimes he wakes up and feels like he can't breathe because the air is so close and still, wrapped like a blanket around him, stifling every inch of his bare skin, and the only source of air is karl's knee on his thigh, foot on his calf, sweaty hand on his chest.

then taking a walk in the middle of the night is like a very short vacation that turns long once he passes the bedroom door, and becomes more vacation than he could possibly want. even if he walks only to the livingroom window, lifts the blinds, throws up the sash and sits on the floor with his chin on the sill--it's a walk as long as he'd like to take and he feels as free as if he's flown miles by himself over snow, leaving a single set of footprints to mark the presence of man in a beautiful wasteland. it's like the music you love, but listen to only when you walk by a talented street performer, and savor it briefly then. it's like the way your eyes linger on a beautiful woman in a crowd or the way sometimes, you think wistfully about being alone again, without really wanting it at all. at the end of an hour musing there, viggo's nose and cheekbones are chilled and pink. his voice may be hoarse from singing softly to himself. he might have fallen asleep and dreamt and not even known he did until he wakes up with karl's hand on his arm. and then he will find he is more than happy to be home again.

End


End file.
